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Tuesday July 24 75.2 miles Johnson's Shut-Ins, Missouri to St. Mary's, Missouri Got up at 7 and headed for the showers. I'm already smelling like a rose by the time Al shows up. "You guys are up early!" he spouts. Al is the only one who has ever told us this. They invite us for oatmeal breakfast, but Sharon and I want to go to Elephant Rocks State Park. We decline. Probably the first time in history cycle tourists have ever refused food. They mention they plan on going to Elephant Rocks State Park as well, but they want to eat and dry their tent first. There is heavy condensation still clinging to our tent's fabric like fat seals. We say "See you there," and pack up our wet tent. It usually dries out fairly fast once we set it up in the evening ... although lately, truth be known, it has begun to smell like a sheep dog in need of a bath. We stop at Barney's Bait Shop for a healthy breakfast of a short stack of fudge brownies, and wash it all down with half a gallon of milk. That Barney sure knows how to lure 'em in. We arrive at Elephant Rocks State Park. The area is littered with 1.5 billion year old pink granite, eroded into huge round-shapes, resembling, well, pink elephants. I think someone has been drinking. There are plenty of walking trails to explore. We discover a picnic area and take it as a hint. We eat while waiting for Al and Monica to show. They don't. We decide to explore some more.  In one area, we discover giant pools of water enclosed in eroded divots -- kind of like a giant game of golf gone awry. We later discover they are called "bird baths." In another area, where industry used to quarry blocks for building material, we find, carved into the rock, the names of master cutters. Cool. Graffiti. A quarry, outside the park, is still in production cutting headstones. Very nice headstones. Very expensive headstones. I could say the kind to die for, but I won't. We hang around for a couple of hours, kind of waiting for Al and Monica to show. They don't. "Must be having trouble getting the sticky oatmeal out of their pot," I muse. "Ah," Sharon responds. "Finally ... someone slower than us!" We head to Pilot Knob and stop there for a little smackeral of something. I order a banana split -- with peanuts. All those elephant rocks, I suppose. Still no Al or Monica. We give up waiting for Al and Monica and head for Farmington on Road W. The pavement is good, but there is no shoulder and very little ditch. Heavy traffic passes us, hauling boats or trailers. On a straight stretch, I see a semi behind two small white cars. All of a sudden the bugger pulls out to pass! I figure he's made a wee miscalculation and he'll pull back in. Certainly there's not room for all three of us side by side. The trucker veers toward us. Hell. Only a couple of hundred feet now. And he keeps on coming. I haul on my brakes and steer for the meager ditch. Sharon, cruising placidly in my slipstream, her head down, hasn't noticed what is occurring. When I brake, she says, "What the hell!" and glances up in time to add "Oh, shit!" She, too, hammers on the brakes and piles into the ditch alongside me. We stop in time to gaze up at the trucker. He gives us the finger. The compact cars he is passing are in the ditch on the opposite side of the road. They're shaking their heads. I wonder what the truckie's attitude problem is. Generally, truckers have been more than kind to us. They've even told us, on more than one occasion, that if we ever get into trouble, just flag one of them down. "I keep three guns in my cab," one cowboy jockey confided. "Want one?" he offered when he learned we weren't packing any heat. "There's crazy people out here!" he iterated. The strangest part of the whole trucker-trying-to-run-us-down episode for me is that it didn't even bother us. We just point our fully loaded touring bikes back onto the road and continue on. We're not shaky. Our hearts aren't beating any faster. In fact, my thought is, Too bad I couldn't have stopped sooner, so I could have given him a big wave and a toothy smile. That would have ticked him off! (Communing with nature for too long does weird things to one's brain, me thinks.) Peace, man. Groovy. In Farmington, population 8,000, we meet three other cyclists. They're headed west. Lucky them. Their best scenery still lies ahead. They warn us about roads in Kentucky. "Narrow, crumbled, and huge coal trucks." They regale us with tales of the Appalachians and the four mile climb up Mt Vesuvius. We tell them it's all downhill from here to the Pacific ocean. We have a difficult time finding a souvenir T-shirt for Sharon, but finally locate one at a place called Omega. The shirt is emblazoned with "Missouri -- Show Me." Only fair, I suppose. After all, this is the "Show me" state. The couple that owns Omega are into Vietnamese Potbelly pigs in a big way. They give us hats with a pig on it -- mine is fluorescent yellow; Sharon's, fluorescent pink. The hats say, "Ask me about my potbelly." I wish it said: "Rub my belly." I know, I'm one sick pig. We leave town at 4:30, heading towards Chester, where, in 52 miles, we will cross the mighty Mississippi. Or at least that's the plan. It is nearly 7:30 by the time we arrive in St. Mary's. We are 12 miles shy of making Chester. We decide, since it is getting late, we may as well stay at St. Mary's. We buy groceries at a corner store combination video outlet, gas station and liquor vendor. A veritable modern day trading post. Since there is no camping shown for St. Mary's, we head to a huge Catholic church on a hill. We summon our courage, genuflect, and knock on the immense rectory door. Several times. No answer. I look for a sign: "God is out. Back in 15 minutes." No such luck. Clouds of ravenous mosquitoes chew our exposed flesh. We hightail it back to the store. After filling our water bottles, we obtain directions to a park. It is now very dark. The moon hangs, the thinnest sliver of silver, like a glittery brooch on a black velvet gown. We find the park, set up our smelly wet tent, make supper, eat till we're ready to burst, then hit the sack. I roll onto my side and hold my stomach while laughing as I remember what the woman at the grocery store said. "You two have just bought the strangest combination of groceries I have ever seen!" Bottles of Lemon Lime flavoured Gatorade, two litres of orange juice, a bag of taco chips, a litre of chocolate milk, a root beer popsicle, a package of Nutter Butter cookies, two tins of fruit cocktail, a box of macaroni and cheese, and a tin of chili beans. I don't see how she figured that was unusual. Hope I have pleasant dreams! |
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